


Everything But Me

by Edge_of_Clairvoyance



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brotherly Love, Comfort, Family, Family Fluff, Fluff, Gen, POV Sam Winchester, Pre-Series, Sick Dean Winchester, Young Dean Winchester, Young Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2019-01-28 09:29:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12603532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edge_of_Clairvoyance/pseuds/Edge_of_Clairvoyance
Summary: Dean has a fever and John leaves him at the motel room under Sam's care.Dean issonot happy about it.





	Everything But Me

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a song by Daughtry

Sam let out a sigh of relief when the door closed behind his father and brother. He was coming to terms with not liking to hunt all that much; he enjoyed the research and the hunting itself was fun sometimes, but he was never as happy about it as Dean seemed to be, never so satisfied with himself after another job was done. He might yet grow to like it, although he was already fifteen years old, and so he kind of doubted he would.

He was relieved when Dad and Dean went on the hunt without him, Dad believing his vague excuse about some history test – or he might have just been too tired of fighting with him again; they got into stupid arguments more and more lately, and Sam knew he was to blame as much as Dad, but he couldn't make himself stop. Anyway, it was an easy one, a vengeful spirit. Piece of cake. Dad didn't really need Sam for this, other than to have him gain some experience. So he left him at the motel room with the usual orders to mind the wards and the salt-lines, and to shoot first and ask questions later. And then Dad and Dean were gone, and he had the room to himself.

He had it to himself for a whole seven minutes before the door opened again and both of then came back in.

"Forgot something?" Sam asked.

"No," Dad replied. "Your brother's not going on the hunt."

"I'm fine!" Dean exclaimed, and then sneezed. Dad raised an eyebrow. "It's just a little cold, Dad."

"You've been coughing for a week, it's not a little cold."

"It's dying down. And I feel fine."

"Is that why you're hardly eating those last few days?"

"I'm eating."

"Not as usual. And you failed the test."

"What test?" With one smooth motion, Dad drew his gun and tossed it over to Dean. He did it lightly, as if playing catch with a child. Dean reached his hand out, but the gun bounced off it and tumbled to the floor. Dean looked at the gun, and then at Dad.

"That test," Dad said. "Sam, get the thermometer."

"I don't have a fever," Dean sneezed again.

"Sure you don't. Now shut it."

Dean tried to pout, although having the thermometer in his mouth spoiled the effect. Dad glanced at his watch, and took the thermometer out.

"A hundred and three point nine. Okay, clothes off, you're going back to bed."

"But I feel fine! That thermometer must be broken."

"The thermometer's good, but if you think the reading in you mouth is off, I can think of another place we can stick it," Sam watched, not without some amusment, as Dean's eyes grew a bit large.

"A hundred and three point nine it is," he muttered.

"You bet your ass. Get in bed," Dean looked like he wanted to argue or possibly stall, but Dad just stood there, arms crossed, eyes fixed on his eldest. Dean sighed and stripped down to his boxers and long-sleeved shirt. Sam had dug out his brother's sweatpants and tossed them to him to put on. Dean glanced at Dad again, saw him still holding the same stance, and finally climbed into bed.

Dad went to him, pulled the comforter up and tucked it around him. "I want you to take two Tylenols, put something hot inside of you, like tea or soup, and get some sleep. I'll try to wrap everything up by dawn. In the meantime, Sam's in charge."

"You're kidding, right?" Dean peeked over at his brother. "No offence, Sam."

"Do I look like I'm kidding?"

"No, sir. But, really, Dad, I'm telling you I feel fine, you're overreacting-"

"Dean," Dad stood up. He was using his this-discussion-is-over tone. "Repeat the orders back."

"Yes, sir. Take two Tylenols. Drink something hot. Get some sleep."

"And?..."

Dean's jaw tightened. "And Sam's in charge. Sir."

"Good boy," with a hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth, Dad tousled Dean's hair and then turned to Sam. "Walk me to the car."

When they reached it, Dad looked back at the motel room's door, and then at Sam. "I'm sorry to leave you with him when he's bitchy like this, but I have a shot at icing the son of a bitch tonight, otherwise it might get a chance to kill again."

"It's okay, Dad."

"I hope he'll be out soon, with the fever and all, otherwise you're in for a long night."

"I can handle it."

Dad looked at him, eyes warm, a smile playing on his lips. "He's gonna give you hell, you know."

Sam smiled back. "I know. I also know a little bit about giving hell myself."

"Don't I know it," Dad nearly groaned, gave Sam a little pat on the cheek, and climbed into the Impala. Sam watched as he pulled out of the parking lot and onto the road, and then went back to their room.

Dean stared at him from the bed. At least he didn't try to get out of it, which Sam considered to be a good start. He got the Tylenol from the med kit, shook two pills out of the bottle, filled a glass with water from the faucet and brought it over to the bed. Dean swallowed the pills without a word, and handed the glass back. Sam took the glass to the sink, rinsed it, and turned back to face Dean.

"Do you, uh, want me to make you some tea?" He asked, a bit awkwardly. He didn't remember Dean ever drinking tea; not if he had a choice, anyway. Come to think of it, he didn't remember Dean being actually sick before. He had been injured, yes, many times. And he might have been coughing or sneezing on cold days, but he was never laid up. It occurred to him that even if his older brother _had_ been sick at some time or another, Sam never really paid attention.

"We don't _have_ tea," Dean muttered.

"They might have some at the front desk. Or I can run down to the gas station-"

"Sam."

"It'd only take-"

" _Sam_ ," Sam cut himself off, suddenly aware that he was kind of babbling. "I don't even _like_ freakin' tea."

"Okay. But you're sick and Dad said-"

" _I'm not sick_ ," the tone was sharp enough to almost make Sam flinch.

"Okay," he didn't even know why he was feeling nervous. It was just Dean, after all. A sneezing, feverish, _pissed_ Dean. "You wanna watch TV or something?"

"Whatever."

Sam brought him the remote, and Dean clicked the TV on. He spent about ten minutes flipping through the channels, completed two rounds, and then clicked the TV off and tossed the remote onto the other bed. Okay, so no.

"Are you hungry? I can maybe fix you something."

"I'm fine."

"You wanna-"

"You know what I want, Sam?" Dean straightened up a little, his hands pressing down on the comforter on either side of his body. "I wanna go with Dad. I wanna be out there hunting, ganking evil sons of bitches, saving people. I wanna do my goddamned _job_."

"Taking care of me is not your job?" Sam asked quietly. Dean stared at him, opened his mouth, blinked, closed it again. "I get it, Dean. I get that looking after a pain-in-the-ass little brother isn't as great as hunting-"

"I didn't say that," Dean said, softly.

"You don't have to, I know it's not. You had to stay with me when you wanted to be out on a hunt or just to have fun, you got my favorite food instead of yours, you gave me that extra blanket so I wouldn't catch a cold, you got in fights at school because you needed to protect me. You-"

"Sammy."

"You had to babysit me every time I was sick, Dean. And you'd tuck me in and bring me tea to bed, and read to me, and put wet towels on my forehead when I had a fever, and even cleaned me up if I threw up on myself and on you, and you'd have to-"

"Sammy," Dean was sitting upright in bed now, his expression somewhere between hurt and worry and tenderness. "I didn't _have_ to. I _wanted_ to, okay? I wanted to take care of you, even when you were sick-"

"But you won't let me."

"What?"

Sam held his brother's gaze. "You take care of me. But You won't let me take care of you. When you're sick."

"I'm not-" but Dean trailed off, his eyes still locked with Sam's. Then he exhaled, and settled back on the pillow. "Yeah. Okay." He blinked, rolled his eyes up and stared at the ceiling for a moment, and then exhaled again and looked at Sam. "We still have a can of noodle chicken soup left. You can warm it up. If you want."

Sam was moving even before Dean had finished talking. He got to the kitchenette and rummaged through their groceries to find the can of soup, and as he was retrieving the pot he glanced over at the bed. Dean had pulled the comforter back up and was watching him from his snuggly little nest. There was a smile on his face, tiny and somewhat surprised, but also very soft.

Sam smiled back at him and got the soup going.

**Author's Note:**

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